


No Shame

by MajorinMonster



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gay Bar, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, me@ canon ACKNOWLEDGE THE HAND PLS, mostly non descriptive dancing bc im lazy, no drinking but lots of dancing, someone hug lucas pls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 18:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17945117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorinMonster/pseuds/MajorinMonster
Summary: The first club he tries is dead, dead, dead. There are two women at the bar cackling to themselves as the bartender watches, bemused. The music isn’t anywhere near loud enough to drown out the poisonous thoughts that seem to be constantly hovering at the edges of his brain these days, and so he leaves without really thinking about it, a heat seeking missile in search of a fire.or, the one where Lucas finds himself club hopping in an attempt to find something, possibly himself, possibly some good music, possibly eliott.





	No Shame

**Author's Note:**

> SO it's been a looong time since i wrote fic, you'll have to forgive me if i'm rusty, but this fandom has taken over my life lmao. i wrote this in the space of a couple of hours so it is a little rough and only edited by me. Also season 3 of SKAM france is the only season i've properly invested in so i hope i wasn't too far off with characterisation. The end might seem a bit rushed, which is because it was rushed! its almost 1am and i have work in the morning whoops!
> 
> anyhow enjoy!

Lucas isn’t even sure how it happens. One moment he’s sat at home feeling sorry for himself and nursing a bag of ice on his injured hand and the next he’s wriggling into too-tight jeans and a soft black shirt. He doesn’t bother styling his hair, just runs his fingers through it until it doesn’t look like he’s crawled out of a bush backwards.  He stuffs his wallet and phone into his pocket and leaves the house without a jacket. The warmth of the night is unusual for the time of year but it isn’t anywhere near humid and there is a cool breeze that rustles the tops of the trees and the edge of his fringe in the same caress.    
  
The first club he tries is dead, dead, dead. There are two women at the bar cackling to themselves as the bartender watches, bemused. The music isn’t anywhere near loud enough to drown out the poisonous thoughts that seem to be constantly hovering at the edges of his brain these days, and so he leaves without really thinking about it, a heat seeking missile in search of a fire.    
  
The next place he tries is better. The music isn’t good per say but it is loud and he can feel the bass in his bones. He drinks a little, just water, and lets himself breathe into the noise, as plate after plate of his armour starts to fall away. And then he sees Chloe and he has to double check that someone hasn’t actually poured ice down his back because the chill that hits him is almost as intense as the thrum of self loathing that rears its head before he can gather himself enough to smack it back down. She is sat in the corner of the club where the strobe lights hit her face every minute or so, her dress is short and clingy and her hair is perfectly coiled at the back of her neck. She hasn’t seen him, too busy laughing with a group of her friends and the ugly voice inside of his head tells him it’s probably him that they’re laughing about. He makes his escape while he still can. She probably wouldn’t even approach him but the idea of it is so present in his head that reality has no chance against it and the door is shutting with a bang behind him before he even realises he has moved.    
  
He stumbles into the third bar in something of a daze, half looking over his shoulder just in case, and so it isn’t until he reaches the dance floor and looks up that he realises exactly where he is. There are men dancing on podiums all around the room, men on the dance floor around him, men at the bar, in line for the toilet, stood at the sides of the room and laughing with their friends, most of whom are also men. The decor is tacky and loud, colourful to the point of being painful to look at in places. There are a suspicious abundance of rainbow flags.    
  
“Shit.”    
  
He thinks about leaving.    
  
More importantly though, he thinks about staying.    
  
He actually can’t quite comprehend that his feet haven’t taken him from the gay club the same way they took him from the bar where he’d seen Chloe. In fact he feels frozen, more ice than boy.

The music is good though, he half recognises the song playing as it shivers over his skin and along his raw nerve endings. If the bar before had been carefully dismantling the shell he’d wedged himself into then this room is stripping it layer of skin after layer of skin, dismantling his protective shield faster than he can build it until it’s just him.  
  
Just Lucas. Just a gay boy stood in a gay bar with a hell of a lot of gay men. Just Lucas. _Just Lucas_.   
  
The moment he realises he’s smiling is the exact same moment he realises he is crying and it’s just him and the music and no one staring at him. In another life where other choices were made it might bother him that no one is sending him appreciative looks but in this life right here he revels in the anonymity. He must stand there for at least 5 minutes, unmoving, crying and smiling and smiling and crying and eventually laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.  
  
Eventually he is approached. A drag queen as tall as one and a half Lucas’ put together, dressed head to toe in silver shimmering fabric and a wig big enough that it could probably double as a blunt force weapon. Their eyes meet and Lucas is still crying, still smiling, still an unconventional mess. She draws him into a one armed hug and tugs him gently towards the quietest corner of the bar and Lucas goes readily, floating, a cloud on legs. He has only ever felt as free as this once before but that memory is as unwelcome as it is welcome and so he pushes it to the back of his brain for another time.   
  
“I’m Charlemagne! And you’re _adorable_! First time?” She asks him once they’re settled onto bar stools. He barks out a laugh that is only slightly bitter, only slightly scared, and nods. “Alright, alright.” She studies him for a few minutes, eyes slightly narrow like she’s assessing him. “So the way I see it you have three options, four if you count me just minding my own business and leaving you alone.”

Lucas raises an eyebrow and nods for her to continue. Her eye shadow is the same shade of pink as the back of the bar and it distracts him until he forces himself to pay attention to her words.

“Option one, we sit here and talk. Maybe I’ll even buy you a virgin cocktail- you really shouldn’t get too drunk for your first time, you wanna soak it all up, experience it all and remember it all in the morning!” She makes a flamboyant flourish and winks at him with such ease that Lucas finds himself laughing, genuinely laughing, with no tears this time. 

“What’s option two?”

“Option two includes dancing, mingling, I can show you around, introduce you to some people, all that jazz,” Lucas shrugs noncommittally. The idea of dancing in front of these people,  _ his  _ people, is… intimidating, but also kind of freeing. It sends a shiver up his spine. “Option three though, option three is where its at.”

“Where what’s at?”

“Well,” Charlemagne’s smile doesn’t dim but it does soften, “a lot of guys when they come here for the first time, they just wanna relax, get used to the place,” Lucas nods once, shrugging his shoulders slightly again. He can understand that. “But sometimes, every now and again, we get a boy who has become so used to shoving himself into the closet, barely allowing himself room to grow and breathe, that he can’t just climb out of it as easily as the rest.” She pats his arm, “sometimes when you can’t climb out of the closet with dignity you have to throw yourself out with as much glitter as you can find. You’ll fall at first, sure, but if you do it in a place like this you’ll have a crowd of people just like you, ready to cushion your fall.” 

The Lucas of an hour ago might have awkwardly glanced around to see who might be listening. The Lucas of an hour ago might have tried to laugh this off, might have used that thick shield of his to buffer all three options, and certainly the last. The Lucas of an hour ago wouldn’t be sat here, next to a drag queen where anyone could see him. But this Lucas knows. This isn’t the Lucas of an hour ago. Any shield he’d been hiding behind has been stripped since he found himself in the middle of a dance floor full of people who didn’t hold an ounce of shame between them. No dirty looks. No name calling. No pushing. No whispering. No shame.

No shame. 

The smile that finds itself curling his mouth is tentative, a hand reaching out of the dark, desperate for another hand to grab hold of, sure, for once, that there is someone there to offer that hand. Someone who won’t drop him when he gets too heavy. 

The memory of Eliott’s smile hangs at the back of his mind, an image he can neither release nor enjoy because it is saturated in so much shame and betrayal that it dulls the colours, downs him in grey. He can’t breathe when he thinks of Eliott. His hands on Lucas’ skin, his laugh, the way he always stands tall, towering so that Lucas has no choice but to look up at him and feel safe under the canopy of his gaze. 

If nothing else, Lucas wants to be someone that the Lucas of an hour ago could look up to. He wants to be the kind of person who doesn’t allow shame to shelf itself on his shoulders, heavy weights that would sink him if he stopped fighting them for long enough. He wants to be someone who can look Eliott in the eyes and say “see? You did not break me. You could not.” 

No shame.

His smile grows like a flower exposed to light for the first time. A shivering, blooming, beautiful thing. He can see on Charlemagne’s face that she recognises that light inside him. 

“I’m Lucas,” he offers her his hand and she takes it, squeezes once, and then keeps hold so she can tug him off his seat. 

“Option three is my favourite,” as they leave the bar they leave their little bubble of relative quiet and so she has to shout this over her shoulder and even then he only really knows what she’s saying because he’s reading her lips. They push through the crowd until they reach a stage that stretches across the entire length of the back wall. There are red satin curtains hung around it and a red glitter backdrop. Various props are flung towards the back, from this angle Lucas can only see a handful. A few feather dusters, at least one cowboy hat sat happily next to a fireman's hat and… well. Lucas is pretty sure that's a dildo. 

As they come to a stop Charlemagne follows his gaze and snorts, “don’t you worry honey, that’s not for you.”

Within seconds the two of them are surrounded by a flock of drag queens. Lucas doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much colour in one place and he certainly can’t understand a word they’re saying because they’re all speaking at once and over each other, but the sheer happiness they exude is a language of its own that needs no translation. 

“Hey now!” Charlemagne interrupts, flapping her hands until they settle down, “don’t overwhelm him, this is his first time. And girls,” they all lean closer, even Lucas finds himself tipping forwards at her conspiratorial tone, “he’s an option three-er.” There is a delighted exchange of looks and another babble of excitement before Charlemagne can calm them down again. They turn to look at him as one and Lucas has to beat down the nervous bubbles in his stomach. 

“Alright Lucas!” Charlemagne claps her hands, “These are the girls, don’t worry about learning names just yet we don’t have time for that, we’re due on in about five minutes.”

What. 

“ _What?_ ” Lucas blinks.

“This is option three. You get on stage with us and we dance our hearts out. Stripping optional!” She sees the colour drain from his face and hastily adds, “just kidding! Clothing is required, this place doesn't have that kind of license.” One of the other drag queens smacks her on the arm fondly. “What you’re wearing is fine actually, if we just…” she pauses to reach over and grab a vivid pink feather boa, then swings it around his shoulders, “there we go! Now listen, there aren’t any rules, dance however you like, you can join us in the lip syncing if you want we’re going for Lauv’s ‘I like me better,’ do you know it?”

Lucas knows it. He nods. He’s been playing Lauv’s album practically non-stop this past week so this feels like a weird case of serendipity but he goes with it. Some nights its felt like Lauv has somehow managed to crawl his way into Lucas’ brain, to read all the thoughts he had been trying to keep secret and scrawl them onto paper, fold them into music. It fits with the genre of the night though, he supposes, if there’s anything else that could make him feel more raw and unmasked he’s having trouble thinking of what it could be. 

“Great! So just have a good time okay?” Charlemagne beams at him, “Glitter, remember? Don’t be afraid. I can point out at least five people in this very room who have done the same thing in this past month alone. You’re surrounded by friends even if you don’t know any of their names apart from mine.”

Lucas nods. He is biting his lip so hard he can taste the iron tang of blood and it scares him. Shame has been trying to creep up behind him the whole time she’s been talking, trying to sink claws into his side, drag him back to the shadows away from this new light he’s enjoyed basking in. He steels himself against it. Forces himself to stand as tall as Eliott would. 

“Alright,” he says, “i’m ready.”

“Yeah you are baby!” They all cheer, the noise of it mixes with the music, blurs into one sound that screams ‘no shame,’ and suddenly Lucas feels as tall as he’s pretending to be, taller even, because they’re lifting him onto their shoulders and parading him onto stage. The crowd turns as one, faces upturned towards them in delight. Lucas half shrieks, half laughs, arms windmilling until he finds his balance. He’s never been so tall, so free to see everything. 

The next five minutes are a blur of set up. He helps where he can, plugging in anything he’s handed so that the stage is lit up by spotlights, a pyre of multicoloured glittering pride in a room already so full of it it’s brimming with the feeling. 

When Charlemagne takes the microphone from its stand Lucas has no idea what she’s going to say but in the face of so many spotlights there are no shadows for the shame to hide in, and he revels in the attention, nervous but not scared. 

“Good evening!” She calls to the crowd, pausing to let them scream it back at her, “we’re joined for the first song tonight by the lovely Lucas, who needs a little bit of a hand coming out of the closet. We’ve promised him glitter,” in an unexpected turn half of the crowd pull handfuls of glitter from nowhere and throw it into the air, “and we’ve promised him support!” They scream their support at him and Lucas feels his knees go weak with the force of it. “And of course, we’ve promised everyone here a good time! So without further delay, this is Charlamagne and the champagne girls!”

“ _Ft. Lucas!_ ” Someone adds from the back of their little drag queen group, and the audience applauds. 

“Knock ‘em dead, kid,” Charlamagne leans over to whisper in his ear. And then the music swells and Lucas loses himself within the wave of it. The song is familiar, though changed slightly to reflect the settling with more of a dance vibe than he remembers. He spends the first thirty seconds on stage feeling self conscious while they dance and lip sync around him. One of the other drag queens notices quicker than he can figure out what to do with himself though and soon he is being swung around by secure hands, twirling and laughing and pressing his smile into the feather boa around his neck like he can leave an imprint to look back on later. 

The hands leave him as quickly as they caught him and for a moment he is adrift, a small boat in a storm, with no-one to steer him. There’s a silent click somewhere in the vicinity of his chest though and a bang from above as five glitter cannons explode over the stage and the first few rows of the crowd and suddenly he’s steering himself, arms flung above his head, eyes closed, chin tipped towards the ceiling where the lights hold him captive. His mouth moves along with the lyrics of the song and it is so loud he can’t tell if he’s actually singing along or not as he moves his hips to the call of the crowd and the beat of the music. 

He doesn’t open his eyes until the last “I like me better when i’m with you,” is sung out over the crowd. His arms come down slowly. He is grinning so wide his face hurts with the stretch of it, foreign after the past weeks drought of unhappiness. He scans the crowd with bright eyes; he has never seen so many people so happy for him in his entire life.

Of course, this is when he catches Eliott’s gaze. 

Eliott, who is stood at the back of the room, half in shadow with a bottle of something in one hand, the other curled around his elbow like he is trying to hold himself steady. His eyes are wide and unblinking and proud as they meet his and once again Lucas wonders if someone is following him around with that ice water, pouring it down his back when he least expects it. He forces himself to break the connection, to look away and back to the rest of the crowd who are all still screaming his name.

The second he is off stage he is handed about fifteen phone numbers by eager hands. He takes them to be polite, but this was more about finding himself than finding a boyfriend and anyway there’s really only one boy on his mind. The only number he keeps is the one that Charlamagne presses into his palm with a proud grin, before ushering him out onto the dance floor and into the waiting mass of dancing bodies. Song after song he allows himself to be passed from partner to partner, aching and chasing after that feeling of freedom he’d found on the stage. It seems to be so far away now, just out of reach. He wonders if it is because when Eliott is near (and, in most cases, when Eliott is far too) he is the only thing on Lucas’ mind. This was never really a problem when they were breathing the same air, occupying the same space, but now Lucas knows what it feels like to have him pull away, to watch him kiss someone else. He smashed his own hand against a wall because it was physically impossible to smash his heart and destroy any trace of Eliott and that had been the next best thing.

In the back of his mind and from the corner of the room Eliott is watching. Lucas never makes direct eye contact while he dances but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel the intensity of Eliott’s gaze on his body. He isn’t sure how he feels about that. Angry maybe. Wistful, certainly. Sad. Definitely sad. When he finally pauses to take a breathe, mouthing “later,” at each new person who tries to dance with him, he lets himself glance over towards that dark corner, but Eliott isn’t there. Distantly Lucas finds himself wondering how Eliott finds it so easy to vanish. To pull himself from Lucas’ orbit and from dark corners as easy as breathing. 

Lucas feels something inside his heart deflate and he sighs. Eliott is a ghost haunting him when he is physically in the same room as much as when he isn’t and Lucas is never sure if the Eliott he is seeing is his Eliott or Lucille’s. His Eliott or a conjuration of his anxiety. It’s a guessing game he isn’t sure if he’ll ever get the hang of. He doesn’t even know if he’ll ever get the chance to get the hang of it. He misses Eliott with a bone deep ache in his chest. He thinks he can feel it sometimes, late at night when he presses his bruised hand to his bruised heart. 

He’d always kind of figured that heart-break wasn’t literal but this whole week has proved him wrong.

He turns back towards the bar and almost screams. Eliott is stood about a foot away from him, looking uncertain. He can hear the beat of his own heart above the beat of the music and in a weird way they synchronise as he blinks at Eliott. It isn’t until someone steps between them, forcing Lucas to move back a step or two, that they break eye contact. It’s one of his previous dance partners, eager for more apparently, and stood a little too close for comfort. He’s tall, though not as tall as Eliott, and his blonde hair is a shaggy pretty mess on the top of his head. Lucas backs up another step and frowns when he is followed. He can still see Eliott in the periphery of his vision and he can’t help but dart an anxious look over the new boy’s shoulder. 

“You want to get out of here?” Cameron, Lucas thinks he’d introduced himself as earlier.

“No, sorry, I’m-” He fidgets uncomfortably, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt until they’re curled over his fists.

“You were amazing up there,” Cameron interrupts him, and Lucas kind of feels bad because when Cameron looks at him his eyes are lit up and he’s beautiful, but he isn’t what Lucas wants and there is no way Lucas is going home with him. As much as he kind of wishes he could, if just to spite Eliott, who is still stood behind Cameron, tense as a statue as he watches them. 

“Thanks,” Lucas forces a smile and then tries to sidestep him, “sorry but i’m here with friends,” it isn’t exactly a lie afterall. Charlamagne is his friend. Eliott is his. Well. Eliott is. That thought catches on the jagged edges of his mind and he leaves it alone, because Cameron reaches out and grabs his wrist in a loose hold and while instinctively Lucas knows he means no harm, he’s pushy but not dangerous, he can’t quite control the way he wrenches his arm out of the other boy’s hold. 

Apparently this is enough for Eliott to step in and Lucas can’t help but be grateful, as angry as he is.

“He said no.” Eliott hovers over them, using his extra height to his advantage as he crosses his arms over his broad chest and glares Cameron down. Lucas had forgotten how menacing Eliott could look when he put his mind to it. And how beautiful. 

“Oh.” Cameron blinks at Eliott and shuffles away a little bit so they’re not stood as close. “I didn’t mean- I mean-” 

“It’s okay!” Lucas rushes to say, “it’s-”

“He said _no._ ” Eliott repeats, pointendly stepping closer to Lucas’ side, and Lucas sighs. In exasperation yes, but relief too. Their shoulders are touching. It’s through at least two layers of clothing but god. Their shoulders are touching and Lucas missed this so much it hurts. 

They both watch in silence as Cameron excuses himself awkwardly, not looking back over his shoulder as he vanishes into the crowd.

“What are you _doing here_?” Lucas finally asks, to break the weird tension between them. Eliott ignores him.

“Are you alright?” Eliott asks, leaning closer so he doesn’t have to shout. Lucas shoves at his chest in frustration, ignoring the twinge of pain in his hand, and then feels bad when Eliott looks hurt. He should apologise. He is sorry. He wonders if Eliott is sorry too, if he regrets using Lucas. Playing him. He wants to ask but he can’t quite decide if he wants to know the answer, he doesn’t know if he could survive Eliott saying no.

“I’m fine.” Lucas shrugs off the hand Eliott tries to place on his shoulder and manages to avoid his grasp when Eliott reaches for his injured hand with a furrowed brow.

“Who hurt you?” He asks, his fingers are outstretched like they want to try to take his hand again.

Lucas snorts, “You did.” 

Eliott flinches so violently Lucas feels bad again. He looks at Lucas’ hand like he’s actually sifting through his own memories, frantically trying to find the one where he hurt Lucas so badly he needed to bandage the wound. Lucas wants to tell him to forget the hand, it hasn’t bled in a while now, unlike his heart which doesn’t seem able to stop.

“I mean.” Lucas sighed and rubbed at his eyes with his uninjured hand. “I punched a wall.”

Eliott still looks vaguely shell shocked, “why?” He doesn’t try to touch Lucas again but he does manage to usher them both deeper into the club, closer to the exit where the music is quietest, though that's not to say it’s quiet, and there are less people jostling them around.

“I saw you kissing Lucille. You know,” Lucas scowled, “right after we slept together? And you kissed me at school? And told me you’d finished with her? And then bailed and told me we were moving too fast? Yeah. After all that.” Listing it out one after another makes his heart ache. He feels like a fool. 

Eliott’s face seems to drain of all colour under the strobe lights. His lips are parted like he wants to speak but he can’t say anything.

“I just need to know one thing,” Lucas steps closer, takes a deep breath in through his nose and lets it out through his mouth, his mind is made up now. It’s better to know the answer and live with it then to wonder for the rest of his life what he did wrong, “was it a bet? Were you all laughing at me behind my back? Or was I just…” he bites his lip, aggravates the small injury from earlier until its painful again, “was I not good?” His cheeks flush crimson and he can’t meet Eliott’s eyes.

“I don’t even know where to begin with that, Lucas,” Eliott covers his eyes with one shaking hand and shakes his head roughly. “You were good. You were fucking great. The best. You were the only one I saw, that first day, and ever since then you’ve been all i’ve seen.” He looks at Lucas then, drops his hands so they hang limp by his sides, “you have to believe I never meant to hurt you. I never meant for any of this to happen. You weren’t a bet or a game or a joke. Everything I feel for you is real, and powerful and I thought what I was doing was for the best.”

“How?”

“Will you let me look at your hand?” Eliott ignores his question, eyes on the hand in question, “please? I need to know it’s okay.”

“I’m fine. I wrapped it myself.”

“Didn’t your friends help you?” 

“I’m not really. Speaking to them,” Lucas crosses his arms over his chest to hug himself, “we got into a fight the same night of that party. After Chloe told everyone within earshot that I’m gay.” He’d said it in public and the world hadn’t ended. Not that he supposed it mattered at this point. Everyone in the room was very much aware of this fact after the performance they’d given barely an hour ago. God, was it really only an hour ago? Time felt like it was moving at a much faster pace than that. 

“ _Shit._ ” Eliott whispers. Lucas can’t hear it but he can see the word as it is shaped on his lips. “Shit. God. Lucas i’m so sorry, has she apologised?”

“Of course not,” Lucas shrugs awkwardly. He is beginning to regret blurting everything out without thinking about it. Eliott was a weird safe space in his mind. His heart might be broken but his brain clearly hadn’t caught up with that part of the story yet. 

“Lucas,” Eliott reaches for him again but doesn’t actually touch him, “can I please hug you? You’ve had a really, really shit week and I’ve only made it worse without realising and I just really want to hug you right now. Please.”

Lucas blinks at him for long enough that Eliott starts to look uncomfortable again, and then he nods slowly. He can’t describe how it feels to have Eliott step close enough that he can smell the cologne on his neck, close enough that if he focused he might be able to see the very pulse beating at the base of Eliott’s throat, if he could focus long enough to try. But having Eliott close saps all of Lucas’ mental strength and before he knows it he is a puddle standing in human form, wrapped up in the scent and warmth of Eliott. This past week he has felt more alone than ever before. There have been moments where he’s sat and cried himself into silence and there have been moments where he’s been so close to punching another wall, just to feel a pain that isn’t inside of his chest, aching like an open wound. 

In the grand scheme of things he hasn’t known Eliott all that long, he’s perfectly aware of that. But he’s also aware enough to acknowledge that this thing between them is ancient and timeless all at once, as much as, this past week, he’d wished it wasn’t. It is brand new and as old as the dawn. Lucas is in love. This doesn’t mean he isn’t still mad as hell at Eliott, or that he isn’t aware that something he did, something he said set Eliott off, created the distance between them that allowed everything to spiral out of control. But he’s so tired of being alone, of missing the one person who he feels knows him. 

When Eliott pulls back he doesn’t go far. Their eyes are locked on each other and Lucas can barely even hear the music in the background now, he’s so focused on Eliott. On his eyes, his lips, his hands where they’re pressed into Lucas’ waist on either side. He knows what is about to happen just as he knows that Eliott will not be the one to make the first move. He lets himself stay in the moment for a little longer, this oddly quiet minute caught in-between the stress of seeing Eliott here tonight, the relief of having some of his questions answered, the frustration of knowing that there are yet more questions he doesn’t have the answer to, and the awareness of how close their lips are to touching. 

Lucas isn’t stupid. He knows this doesn’t fix things. They still have a lot to talk about, Lucille, Chloe, his hand, whatever it was that set Eliott of on his mission to push Lucas away. There’s a lot. But right here in this moment he is just Lucas and Eliott is just Eliott. They’re two boys who like boys in a club for boys who like boys, one of the safest places they could find outside of Lucas’ bedroom. And so Lucas kisses him, with the pink feather boa still slung around his shoulders and half crushed between them. It is as easy as breathing. 

No shame.


End file.
